Me and A Guy Named Elvis by Jerry Schilling wrote:
But now Dewey was saying that a boy who had to live just blocks away from
me had actually made his own record. Dewey intro’d the song, saying he himself
had heard it for the first time just the day before, courtesy of Mr. Sam Phillips—
no relation, I’d learn—over at Memphis Recording Service. It was a cover of an
old Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup tune. I didn’t catch the name of the boy from Humes
at first; it was something kind of old-fashioned.
The record started playing, and the boy from Humes High started singing. He
sounded great. The music was simple, just a couple guitars and a plunking bass,
but it sounded unlike anything else I’d ever heard. The rhythm was easygoing
and driving at the same time—not quite blues, not quite country. The boy from
Humes High had a voice that was strong but gentle, too. Right away, he was
soaring up to sweet high notes, sounding like it didn’t take him any effort at all to
get there.
That’s all right now Mama, anyway you do…
He sounded tough at times, and sang with unbelievable confidence, but there
was also a little tremble in his voice that kind of pulled you in. The way he sang,
you could feel both a little smile and an ache. Whatever secret world of
excitement was out there beneath the boring surface of grown-up, day-to-day
life, it sounded like this guy from Humes High had found it.
The song was over too fast, and the voice was gone. The voice of a boy
from Humes High.
Elvis Presley. That’s what Dewey said the singer’s name was. I was wide
awake now. And I wanted to hear that song again. Dewey must have known
there would be some other listeners feeling the way I did, because after a
station break Dewey played the song again. And again. And again. Dewey did
that sometimes when he really liked a record, and he clearly liked this one. I
think I got to hear that brand-new song six or seven times. And it sounded just as
fine every time Dewey played it.
That’s all right, that’s all right…
Already, I liked it even better than “Sixty Minute Man.”
But the new record turned out to be only half the thrill of that night’s show.
After some more fumbling with the mikes, Dewey let us know that the boy from
Humes High was sitting right there next to him, “right here in the magazine level
of the beeeyoootiful Chisca Hotel” (for some reason “mezzanine” was always
“magazine” to Dewey). The boy’s song was getting such an enthusiastic
response from around town that Dewey had called to get him down to the studio.
His mom and dad had gone out looking for him, had finally found him hunched
down in a seat in the back of the Suzore #2 movie theater, and had brought him
straight over to the Chisca to go live on the air with Dewey.
I’d be lying if I said I remembered exactly what was said that night by this
new singer. But I do remember that hearing Elvis Presley talk had me just as
excited as hearing him sing. His speaking voice was kind of high and soft, like
his singing voice, but, in conversation, he wasn’t so smooth—you could hear
that he was nervous. He was perfectly polite with Dewey, calling him “Sir,” and
thanking him for playing the record. He sounded like a nice guy, even a little shy
maybe, but always cool. He even sounded good when he stuttered and
stammered his way through most of his answers. Kind of made me want to
stammer, too.
Dewey thanked him for being there, played “That’s All Right” one more time,
and then worked his way toward his sign-off. I finally clicked off the Silvertone
and lay back down. Maybe Dewey would play the song again tomorrow night. I
hoped so, because I wanted to hear it again. And I wanted to hear Elvis Presley
talk some more.
Most of all, I wanted to meet this boy from Humes High.
I’d had the importance of prayer pretty well drummed into me in my years at
Holy Names, but as far as I could tell, it hadn’t done me any good. At first I
figured maybe I was just praying wrong, then I figured maybe I wasn’t important
enough to have my prayers heard. Finally, somewhere around third or fourth
grade, I began to have the sneaking suspicion that the whole system was just
another thing the grown-ups said was good for you that didn’t really have any
discernible upside. Like eating your vegetables.
This night, though, I decided to give it another shot. I didn’t kneel by the bed. I
didn’t fold my hands or squinch up my eyes. I just lay in bed and stared up at the
ceiling. I thought about that boy from Humes High. As much as I’d heard the song
that night, I couldn’t quite hum the melody he’d sung—it was already slipping
away. But the feeling that song gave me didn’t go away. It took me a while to
figure out what that feeling was, because it was a feeling I wasn’t used to.
It was hope.
So I threw together a bit of improvised prayer, just for the heck of it. Staring
up at the ceiling, hands at my side, I prayed: Look, the neighborhood’s not that
big. Just let me meet this guy. Please.
I already knew that hope was a dangerous thing in North Memphis—it usually
just led to more disappointment than if you went through life without it. And I
didn’t expect that my prayer now—simple as it was—had any better chance of
being answered than any previous prayer. But on this sticky summer night, when
the sound of the pipes and the floorboards and the thunder had been drowned
out by one strong voice from Humes High, it didn’t seem like a little hope and a
little prayer could hurt.